Weekending

The magnolia tree thinks that it is spring, and has forced out some new, slightly confused, blossoms.  It's understandable, given the lack of summer.  I slept with the window open all night to take full advantage of the rain, and had nightmares about Steve Coogan, so perhaps the window should remain closed.

There was the possibility of a date this weekend, in Ghent, with a fairly young (only 20 years my junior) tattooed chap.  He had kind eyes.  However, when he said "let's see what the weather is like" I raised my eyebrows.  Anyone who is put off by a little torrential downpouring is really not worth the train fare.  I heard nothing further from him - perhaps his tattoos dissolve if they get wet.

This is the first weekend since I've been here that I've actually felt a little bit lonely.  It is probably because most weekends have been a consumption of exhaustion, recovery and a desultory or desperate searching for work.  That bit is almost over, and a next stage is coming.  There needs to be a new way to spend weekends, hopefully something that involves Nigella recipes, or groups of laughing friends like in old Dubonnet ads. 

In the final weeks of my domestic service, I am again struck by the complexity of relation to one's employers.  Both families have actually been lovely, and have treated me very well.  The other night I was babysitting for one of the families as they were going out to a concert.  Beforehand a light supper was served to which I was invited along with the family's guests.  It felt like the scene in Jane Eyre where she is invited into the drawing room with Rochester's sparkling acquaintance - it is hard to know one's role.  Suffice to say I did not sit quietly with my embroidery.